


But Do You Feel Like a Young God?

by SeptemberEndings



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Rating May Change?, Zayn's in this because why tf not, no canon drama bc that shit is crazy, possible exploration of dark past in future chapters, superhero au, third person but it switches a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4529466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeptemberEndings/pseuds/SeptemberEndings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall doesn't know what to do. "Did that just--"</p><p>"Happen?" Harry finishes for him. "Yeah, I think so. Interesting."</p><p>"Interesting?" Niall's voice is high-pitched, and he's gripping the counter now. "That's just--that's not supposed to happen! Magic doesn't exist! I don't--shit, man."</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>Or, where Zayn can read minds, Harry's a genius, Louis can freeze time, Liam can heal faster than anyone and Niall feels very confused about his powers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd be sorry for this, but nah. Deal with it.

Zayn is four and he cannot stop crying.

And it's the sobbing kind, so hard that he can't sleep or eat or play. He just sits in the corner, tears streaming down his face, face the perfect picture of misery.

After two hours of this, his mother comes over to him, cautiously, and bends down. "Zayn, honey, what is it?" she asks, and forgive her if she sounds a _little_ frantic. "Are you hurt? Are you sick? Are you--"

"You can't feel it?" he interrupts, eyes wide and filled to the brim with water. His voice is hoarse and thick.

"Feel...what, sweetheart?" She asks slowly, studying her little boy. He's obviously miserable, but he almost looks...tired. The way adults should, not little kids. She feels her chest tighten uncomfortably.

"Mrs. Whitman," he says, his voice solemn and apathetic, despite the childish tones affecting it.

"Mrs. Whitman? Our neighbor?"

"She's sad, momma," he sobs, "and she's thinking about leaving. And I d-don't know where, bu-but it's nowhere good, momma, _help_."

"Sweetheart," she says carefully, calculatingly, "Mrs. Whitman adores you. Every time she sees you she gives you cookies, remember? Trust me, Mrs. Whitman isn't sad, okay? Don't worry about her."

Zayn shakes his head, the tears still flowing freely. "You don't understand," he whispers, curling in on himself, "no one does. No one gets it..."

 

But after a week of nonstop crying, he quits.

Right in the middle of the day, he just stops, and his face becomes blank, vaguely scared.

And then, he wipes his cheeks, and stands up. He announces he wants a nap. His eyes are wide and brown and downright _playful_ , and his mom wants to cry from relief. Her baby boy was okay after all, and there was no need to worry.

 

The next day, Mr. Whitman finds Mrs. Whitman when he comes home from a business trip.

Her body is dangling from a gorgeous Weeping Willow.

A stool is overturned, inches from her slack feet. The garden house around her neck cuts into the swollen, purple flesh surrounding it. Her blank eyes reflect the back of the house, the exact color of the chipping baby blue paint that sticks over the crumbling bricks.

In the kitchen, under a plate of sugar cookies, is a note.

Hastily scrawled, messy and in sharpie.

_I'm sorry._

_I'm so, so sorry._

***

Harry is nine when he discovers he's something more than normal.

 

The thing is, he never pays attention in fourth grade. Who pays attention in fourth grade? _No one._

No, he spends his days tapping out rhythms with his pencil and making faces at his friend across the room until his teacher tries to get him to pay attention.

 

No one pays attention in fourth grade, but in spite of that, he always has perfect grades.

His parents call him lucky, his sister pulls faces at him, and his other friends don't really care all that much. They just want to know what kind of Pokemon card he has and oh, that one's good, wanna trade me?

 

And it's not much to think about; it's just a fourth grader who seems to be gifted, but then his cousin comes in to town, toting books and highlighters and notebooks for her _countless_ exams.

She's a lot older-- _twice his age!_ \--and she's not interested in Game Boys or playing pretend with Gemma, she's just interested in studying.

Which makes Harry a bit sad; he remembers when he was really little and she'd piggyback-ride him around the house, laughing and laughing and telling him that he was the best little cousin ever.

 

Two days into her visit, he gets bored.

Really bored, so much that even his Game Boy doesn't hold his interest, so he hops into the seat across from her.

"Whatcha doin?" he chirps, looking at her. Her brow is furrowed in concentration.

"Work," she says, distractedly. "Exams, actually. Harry, you're so lucky you don't have to do this, oh my god."

"I'll have to eventually, though," he reasons. "Since you're doing it right now, and you're older than me. Is this why all the older kids seem so stressed all the time?"

She laughs, and takes a break from jotting down notes to gesture at him with her pen. "You're bright, I'll give you that."

"Do you want any help?" Harry asks, hopping down and crossing over to where she's sat. "Maybe I could help. If you wanted me to."

She smiles, but it's one of those condescending ones that adults have--the kind that's mixed with _aww you're so innocent,_ and _that's sweet but you'd be absolutely no help at all._ "Unless you can tell me the cosine of the angle of eighty-one using degree notation without using a calculator, I don't think you'll be much help, sorry Haz."

He stops, and stares at the problem. At the notes, especially the ones in color-coded highlighter. He thinks for a second. ".156434465," he says.

She just laughs again, and gives his head a friendly rub, before continuing her notes.

 

Harry wanders off to the next room, looking for a book to read.

 

Five minutes later, he hears her voice, slightly panicked, call out, "Harry, what's the number you told me before?"

".156434465," Harry says, "approximately. I don't know if that's right, I was too bored to check it."

"Right," he hears her say, "right. Um, I'm gonna go talk to your mom and dad, uh, for a second, just--"

He hears crumpling of papers and thumps as she dumps her things into the armchair, rushing over to his parents, eyes wide and mouth in a disbelieving grin.

 

The results of the tests are all conclusive of the same thing; Harry Styles is a genius.

Every question correct. No matter the complexity level. He pointed out a flaw in _Albert Einstein's_ early theories. In a bored, almost _unimpressed_ tone.

 

The thing was, his results in school had never been absolutely genius-level. Sure, he got great grades, but it didn't make him stand out from the rest.

When his parents asked him about it, though, he'd just shrugged. "I didn't pay attention," Harry had said. "If I did, I'd probably get those questions right, but I was okay with how I was doing."

His answer, when asked about the test results, was always the same; once he saw it, he understood it. Easy-peasy. One-two-three. Simple as that.

Harry Styles said he wasn't a genius; he just said that he understood.

***

Louis is fifteen and he doesn't want to go home.

His parents are great, and so are his sisters, but.

But.

He's gay.

 

The problem is that it shouldn't _be_ a problem.

It should be a natural, welcoming thing, a thing that doesn't even have to be discussed. He should be able to talk about how hot Dylan O'Brien is and he should be going on dates with that boy in his English class with the purple hair and the soft smile.

 

He _shouldn't_ be worried about being disowned because of a choice that isn't even a _choice_ so much as a feature of himself that he can't change.

And he'd definitely change it if he had a choice.

 

 

It wasn't that this was a recent thing; he's known as long as he can remember.

But last night his stepdad had gone off on this crazy rant about disgraces and homosexuals and horrifying ideas of men being with men and girls being with girls and his mother had just nodded solemnly before she'd asked Louis if he wanted more mashed potatoes, and something inside of him broke.

He doesn't know how much longer he can hold whatever this is in, before it explodes and he explodes and he says so many things, like how he's gay and Eleanor is a great friend but she's been his fake girlfriend for too long and he feels so many things and above them all is shame and it's just _wrong_.

 

Louis checks his watch. It's 4 pm, and he's expected home in an hour, for sure. He sighs.

 

He just wishes time would _stop_.

 

He keeps walking down the boulevard, head down, going nowhere in particular, when he bumps into a person in front of him.

Louis looks up, hands up, apologies on his lips, when he realizes--the woman is in mid-step.

The poodle on the leash beside her is coiled, ready to start running, and there's a pinched, concentrated look on the lady's face, her knuckles white against the leash.

Louis stares.

She _seems_ to be real. No wax figure could have the flush in her cheeks, the brightness in her eyes too real.

But she's not even _breathing_. She's not moving, a perfect statue.

Like someone had placed her on pause.

 

Louis lets out a laugh, but it's panicked and he's not really sure but there's a ball of nerves in his stomach that's tickling his insides and seeding fear all throughout his body. "Lady?" he asks, snapping his fingers in front of her face. "Are you alright?"

She stays still, more frozen than ice.

"Um, can anyone else...help--"

And that's when he notices it.

 

The quiet. The still, horrifying quiet, the kind that exists in the absence of life, the thing that you never actually hear.

Louis sucks in a deep breath, and it feels like smoke has entered his lungs.

In shops, on streets, everyone--every _thing_ \--is frozen. Utterly and completely.

A light is stuck on yellow, the tires of a car clearly in the process of spinning, a man on the other side of the street on the phone, mouth open as if to respond--nothing was moving except for Louis.

Louis breathes. In. Out. Nothing is _moving._

He picks up his phone--to do what, even he isn't sure--when he notices the time.

4:01.

And that's--that's just not possible. Two or three minutes had passed, at least. It was not 4:01, it had to be-- _fuck,_ it had to be some other time.

 

Hallucination. Yeah, that's what it was.

Hallucination. He was hallucinating. Lack of sleep, nerves setting in, probably some un-diagnosed mental disorder--that _had_ to be it. He was going crazy.

This was not possible. Not possible. _Not possible_.

"I'm just crazy," he tells himself. "That's it. This is a dream. And besides, there's no reason for panicking--I mean, dreams end sometime, so."

He hasn't noticed that he's sunk to his knees, head tucked down to his chest, hands shaking.

"Dream. Dream, dream, dream," he says to himself. "Momentary hallucination. That's it. In five seconds, everything will be fine--"

 

A scream. Louis's head snaps up, eyes wide, as the dog-walking woman lets out another high pitched shriek.

A car honks. The light changes from yellow to red. The man on the phone groans into the phone.

Dog-Walking Lady stares at him. "Where did you come from--oh my god,you weren't there a second ago--"

"I. Um," Louis says, mouth dry, "I need to go."

 

He runs all the way home.

 

When Charlotte asks him why he was back so early, he just shakes his head and goes into his room.

Dream.

Momentary hallucination brought on by anxiety and sleep deprivation.

_Not. Real._

***

Liam is seventeen when he gets hit by a car.

And, okay, he can be pretty stupid--but this one wasn't his fault.

The crosswalk had signaled for pedestrians to cross. The light on the street had been a definite, bold red. He was halfway through the intersection, and had more than enough time to get all the way across safely.

 

But then the car careens out of _nowhere_ , tires squeaking and wheel spinning, and Liam has two seconds to note that it's black and it's got too many dents before _bang_.

 

He feels his body smack against the windshield, hears it crack underneath him. His back rolls onto the hood, thumping and twisting. His arm shatters the headlight. The world is a giant mess of blue and gray and white and black, before his nose breaks on the asphalt.

 

The first thing he's really aware of are the aching in his hands, which were now scraped and bruised from the impact with cement. He can't feel his legs at all, and while he knows his eyes are open, all he can see is a cobbled vision of black and rocky road turf.

He feels cold, even though there's something warm seeping away from him, and while he can breathe, and it doesn't hurt, it's hard. Like there's a wall between his lungs and his nose and mouth.

 

He's aware of the sound of a door shutting, before someone comes out, turns his body over.

He blinks in the harsh sunlight, but everything's a huge mess of nothing and _everything_ at the same time.

Rough, scarred hands grip at him, pressing two thick fingers to the base of his neck. He hears a sharp intake of breath, a small chant of _oh god oh no oh please no fuck no nonononono,_ before the person does it again, pressing harder on his neck, enough to bruise.

Liam wants to complain, but everything is such a hazy blur.

 

The person swears, louder again this time, and there's hurried footsteps, the car starting up and screeching into a U-Turn and racing away from his body.

 

In a part of his mind, he thinks _hit and run._

 

The thing is, it's not an abandoned street, and there will be cars and pedestrians coming soon enough.

He needs to move, try to get help, not just lay on the ground helpless.

He tries to move his hand, press it to the ground, but it won't move, and just. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

But he can't panic, and he can't stay here, _no_.

So he takes a deep breath, (the breaths seem to be slowly getting easier, coming into his lungs with less reluctance), and he tries to bend his finger inward. Just to prove he can.

It doesn't even twitch.

 

Before he can properly freak out, a searing pain flares up at the base of his spine.

It feels like-- _god,_ it feels like being hit in reverse.

There's a burning, a scorching, before he feels bone literally knit itself again, vertebrae slotting into place.

He feels his nose upright itself, slide itself back into place, and fuse back with the rest of the cartilage.

 

Liam doesn't move. It's not that he can't now; it's that he's scared to.

 

This wasn't possible.

It wasn't. Couldn't be.

He tests his hand again.

 

It presses into the asphalt, strong and steady and reassuring.

His vision goes back into sharp focus, and the sky is blue and radiant above him. Stories of a nearby skyscraper edge into the corner of the picture.

He blinks. Gets to his feet.

 

There's still a slight ache at the base of his spine, in his elbow, on his nose, near his heart and lungs.

He stares at his hands.

No sign of a scrape, of skin being torn off. It's all perfect, albeit smeared with blood.

 

He stumbles to the nearest building, and leans against it, heart thudding.

In the back of his mind, he sorts through the facts, and comes up with a conclusion; he'd been dead.

His heart hadn't been beating. There was no pulse when the driver had checked for one, and that's why the guy had freaked out and left. He'd been _dead._ And now he's _alive._

And what's more, he isn't even scraped; other than being covered with blood, he's fine now. His nose had been broken, his spine severed--his heart had stopped _beating_.

And he's just as fine as he was before it had happened.

 

Liam laughs, and he's not sure why, but it's just-- No one's going to believe him.

And it doesn't really matter. He'd just survived a hit and run that had left him literally _dead_ , and he's just fine now.

And it's very, very not smart, but--Liam's invincible.

Just like a superhero.

He grins stupidly. He feels the dried blood around his mouth crack and bend around it.

* * *

Harry's nineteen and walking down the street, when he runs into a boy who pops out of nowhere.

Well. He doesn't run into anyone.

The boy actually runs into him, eyes wide and mouth already shaping the word _shit._

 

They both topple onto the sidewalk, Harry's arms barely softening the impact.

The boy scrambles up before Harry's even properly hit the ground, but Harry lashes out, gripping the boy's wrist before he can get away.

"Where'd you come from?" he asks, eyes wide and curious.

The boy tries to jerk from his hold, but Harry's steady. He knows that this is probably a limited interaction, and he's not going to give up answers voluntarily, but Harry's curious. And when Harry's curious, he's just _got_ to know.

The boy laughs, and his laugh is clear and high. "Dunno what you're talking about, mate," he says, running his hand through his hair. "I was running down the street, and I didn't see you. Sorry mate, it won't happen again--"

"But you weren't even here a second ago," Harry pushes, stepping closer to him. "I didn't see you at all, and it's a clear street."

"Well, you must've missed me," the boy says, tugging against Harry's hold. Harry doesn't let go.

"You see," Harry says, studying him, "I don't miss anything. So where did you come from?"

The boy blinks. His eyes are really big, and blue, just like the sky.

He's very attractive, objectively speaking, and Harry finds himself admiring his good looks. Lazy, bordering on messy, but with a certain charm attached.

"Oh, bloody hell," the boy sighs, and all of a sudden, Harry's grasping at thin air, the boy nowhere in sight.

 

Harry turns his hand over, thinking.

It's interesting.

Certainly more interesting than normal things, like breezing his way through university. Maybe he'll look into the boy.

He thinks about him, the panic barely concealed in his eyes, the way the boy's hands twitched when Harry had pointed out the facts. He was definitely hiding something.

Now all Harry had to do was find the boy again, and, well, that would be a challenge.

He smiles to himself.

He hasn't had a good challenge in a long, long time.

***

There's a homeless boy on Liam's way to university.

He sits with his back leaned up against a stone skyscraper, a blanket wrapped loosely around his skinny legs. Two doors down, a coffee shop sits, and Liam likes to get coffee there a lot, talk to the baristas. He's managed to make a friend out of one them, a bleached-blond boy with a heavy accent named Niall.

The homeless boy has sunken, sad eyes, and tousled, greasy hair. He's wrapped in himself, and he always wears a huge gray hoodie that pools around him.

Liam feels bad for him, offers him a bit of croissant sometimes. He must be the same age as Liam, and _god._ Liam's heart breaks a little bit for him, even if Liam can't help wondering what happened to the boy to push him out onto the streets.

 

Three weeks after Liam started offering little things to the homeless boy, the homeless boy spoke to Liam.

The thing is, the homeless boy was not a beggar. He never had one of those cardboard signs, never shook a cup full of coins at passerby--he just sat on the sidewalk, arms curled under his knees, watching people pass by with faint interest. Maybe that's why Liam had started being kind to the boy. Or maybe it was just how young he looked.

Or maybe it was the spark of _something_ behind his eyes that other people didn't have.

 

"Thanks."

Liam looks at the boy in surprise. He's fiddling with the piece of bread in his hands, eyes cast down.

His voice had been soft and sweet, alluring. Liam blinks. "Um, you're welcome," he says. Well, it actually comes out more like a question, and Liam winces a bit.

 

Homeless Guy just laughs, though, and Liam relaxes. "I'm Zayn," he says, offering a hand to Liam.

Liam shakes it, and tries to resist the urge to wipe his hand on his jeans afterward. "Liam," Liam says, smiling a little at Zayn.

Zayn stiffens, suddenly. Just for a second, and he's leaning against the building again, but now he's looking at Liam with something slightly stronger than intrigue. Liam frowns. "Um, is everything okay?" he asks Zayn.

Zayn bits his lip. "Yeah, it's just...um, never mind. Uh, shouldn't you be headed off to uni?"

Liam cocks an eyebrow. "How'd you know about that?" He asks, and he's really only halfway teasing.

Zayn cracks a smile, but it's weirdly tired. "Ah, well, why else would you be up this early? No one sane is."

Liam nods, accepting the answer. "Um, yeah. Well, you're right, I should take off. Nice talking to you, Zayn."

Zayn offers another smile, and this time it's a little more genuine. "You too, Liam."

 

And just for the record, Liam's heart does _not_ flutter when Zayn says his name. Because that would be insane.

***

Niall regrets taking a job as a barista.

Mainly because he has to get up at 6 am and catch a bus to work, but there are other, little things too. Like how people don't realize that there are trash cans for a _reason,_ or the rude business people who snap their orders at him and get angry if they have to wait longer than thirty seconds.

Still, he needs the money, and there are a few good regulars, so he guesses it isn't _so_ bad.

 

His two favorite, by far, are Louis and Liam.

Louis because he always comes in during the midday lag, and complains about everyone with a smirk on his face. He always pays too much for his drink, giving Niall a conspiratorial wink. And he likes Liam, because, well, he's _Liam._

He's always ridiculously cheerful, even though he comes in too early and has to go to school at eight in the morning. (And seriously, you can _choose_ what time your classes are; why go for such a disgusting hour?) Liam's basically a puppy that no one can resist, and Niall's gotten quite fond of him.

 

But aside from his two friends, the coffee shop is _really_ boring. 

So no one can blame him for playing Candy Crush instead of keeping an eye on the customer queue. Besides, it's five pm, and no one wants coffee at five pm, right?

Except for the man standing in front of him, pointedly clearing his throat.

 

Niall looks up, and sighs, locking his phone. "Hi, welcome, and stuff. So what's your order then?"

The man, surprisingly, cracks a smile at this, and Niall suddenly sees that he's a lot younger than Niall had first thought. He has youthful, bright green eyes and a kind of shy grin, and even though his hair is slicked back by hair gel and he's dressed like a sixty-year old man, Niall can see how he could be attractive. (Objectively speaking; Niall's straight. Even if he enjoys the occasional episode of Glee. Shut up.)

"Um," the ~~man~~   _boy_ says, pushing his glasses up his nose, "I'd like. A coffee?" 

Niall has to try really hard not to roll his eyes. "Yeah, and what kind of coffee do ya want?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna be honest, I have no idea," he admits. "I'm not really a big fan of coffee, just thought I'd try it out."

Niall grins at him. Properly, not the fake one he has to pull out for all the business-people. "Well, I'd recommend a latte," he says. "They're damn good, really."

Poorly-Dressed Guy nods. "Well, I'll have one of those?"

"Brilliant," Niall says. "What's your name?"

"Harry," Harry says.

"Alright, it'll be right up."

Harry nods, and wanders off to a table to wait.

 

Niall's about halfway through perfecting Harry's drink when the bell over the door rings again.

This time, Niall turns around in surprise, because one customer after five is odd, but two is downright _weird,_ when he sees that it's just Louis. He waves amiably, before turning back around to pour the coffee into a paper cup.

Before he has time to call out Harry's name, though, Harry suddenly gasps. "You!"

Niall whirls around, but he isn't who Harry's talking to. His finger is pointed at Louis, and he looks excited.

Louis shakes his head. "What--"

"The street. A few weeks ago," Harry insists.

Louis suddenly smiles, but it's stretched thin. His eyes are panicked. "I don't know what you're talking about, mate--"

"I think you do," Harry says. "And I need to talk to you."

Louis starts backing up. "I don't think you do--"

"You _vanished_ right in front of me!"

Louis flinches. Niall frowns. "Harry," Niall says, "I think you're making Lou a bit uncomfortable, and what you're saying is impossible, so--"

Harry just shakes his head. "Please, I just want to talk to you," he says, stepping closer to Louis, palms facing up. "That's all."

Louis laughs, but it's shaky. "Look, I really don't know what you're--"

" _Please._ "

 

Louis groans, and locks eyes with Niall, who fights to keep his expression blank.

He heard once that you should never provoke a crazy person, and he was trying to keep calm while reaching for his phone. It sounded as if Harry was having some sort of hallucination, and it could turn dangerous very quickly.

Louis sighs, and turns back to Harry. "I don't know what you're talking about, and that's what I've been saying. You must have the wrong person."

Harry just cocks his head to the side. "I don't miss anything. I know I'm right."

"Maybe we could go outside and talk about this?" Louis begs.

"No," Harry says, "No. You'll just do it again."

 

Louis bites his lip, and looks over at Niall. "Sorry, Nialler," he says.

 

And all of a sudden, he's just not _there_ anymore.

 

Niall doesn't know what to do. "Did that just--"

"Happen?" Harry finishes for him. "Yeah, I think so. Interesting."

"Interesting?" Niall's voice is high-pitched, and he's gripping the counter now. "That's just--that's not supposed to happen! Magic doesn't _exist_ _!_ I don't--shit, man."

"Yeah," Harry echoes. He sounds a bit dreamy. "Well, it's nice to know I didn't dream it the first time."

He pushes his glasses up farther on his nose, straightens his sweater vest, and leaves the coffee shop.

 

And now Niall's alone with no money, a latte growing cold, and absolutely no idea what just happened.

"What the _fuck,_ " he groans.


	2. Chapter 2

Zayn meets Liam on a Good Day.

 

* * *

 

 

Good Days for Zayn were when he knew who he was, when he could move without every joint in his body screaming in pain.

Which sounds like exceptionally low standards, but.

For Zayn, Good Days were few and far between, something to be cherished.

 

The Bad Days were the ones that controlled Zayn's life.

Bad Days were the days where he could only curl into himself, hopefully _not_ in the middle of the street, and just pray for it all to end. They were the days where his mind kicked into overdrive, and he felt choked to the brim with thoughts that weren't his own, pushing out everything and leaving only him and the concrete below him and _pain._

And all he could do was wait, and wait, until gradually everyone's _everything_ left him, and he could remember his name and age and how many fingers he had.

 

The doctors had told him that he had some form of schizophrenia.

 _It manifested itself relatively early,_ the doctors had said to him and his mom. _There's medication for this type of thing, but we're afraid he'll become aggressive and violent. We recommend a mental health institution, if possible._

And then they'd patted his back. As if that made it all better. As if Zayn's world hadn't just been broken into jagged, angry pieces and scattered into the wind.

 

There had been _so many_ pill bottles.

All of them had very serious warnings, and bad side-effects. A few of them even had the radioactive symbol printed on them, which made him _very_ uneasy, because at that point he wouldn't put an assassination attempt above the doctors.

 

He had to drop out of school, instead getting home-schooled. It was hard to learn. The pills stuffed up his brain, and he had _constant_ headaches.

Bad Days still happened, but the doctors called it depression. They said it was a side-effect to the side-effects and prescribed him _more_ pills.

 

And then his mom started to get scared of him.

It was little things at first; she'd drop pamphlets advertising mental institutions onto his place-mat at dinner 'accidentally'. When Zayn was home, she always had an errand to run, or friends to see, or a long walk to take for no apparent reason.

Sometimes, when Zayn went to hug one of his sisters, or even talk to them, she'd flinch when she thought Zayn couldn't see her.

Sometimes, Zayn would say that he loved her, and she wouldn't say it back.

 

It was when he'd walked in on her having a phone conversation that he realized.

 

She's sobbing, is the thing, and he'd wanted to check up on her, make sure she wasn't hurt or anything.

 

"--and I'm scared," was what she was saying when he opened the door. "Of it. Of maybe what'll happen."

Zayn's blood ran icy. Waves of distress were rolling off of her, almost tangible.

He listened, silent, heart throbbing against his chest.

 

"He's _dangerous,_ " she whispered. "And. God. He looks at me with those _eyes,_ but--he's not mine anymore. Not really."

Zayn had held his breath, and prayed. To anyone, to _every_ one, that she wasn't talking about _him._ _Please._

"And, I just," she hiccuped, "I don't want Zayn to hurt my family. I can't _let_ that happen."

And Zayn let his breath whoosh out.

_My family._

_My._

Not 'our family'. Not even 'the children'.

'My'.

As if they weren't his family at all.

As if he was some ominous, unforeseen threat. A stranger sharing a roof.

Like he wasn't her _son._

 

 

He walked out and made sure to slam the door behind him.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he was already five blocks from his house, a duffle bag thrown over his shoulder.

***

On his Good Days, Zayn likes to sit out on one of the semi-busy streets.

On the corner of one of the streets, a large financial buildings with too many stories stretches up into the sky. It's made of smooth stone and is nice to sit up against, and the people passing by are kind, or pay him no mind.

 

One of the kinder people is a young boy with soft brown eyes, and he even gives Zayn part of his breakfast sometimes. Zayn knows that it's probably out of pity, but still. He appreciates the gesture.

 

The boy gives Zayn a bit of his croissant one particular morning, and quite by mistake, Zayn looks into his eyes.

 

Zayn didn't like to look into people's eyes.

Somehow, it made his...affliction worse, and he ended up with a headache and memories that weren't his (and God, he knew they were delusions, but they were just so _vivid_ ).

So, as a rule, Zayn kept his eyes down and made himself as small as possible.

 

But the boy didn't look up in time and Zayn glanced up too soon, and Zayn could see _something._

A spark, maybe. Maybe not, but there was _something_ , and it clicked, and before Zayn knew what he was doing he blurts out, "Thanks."

The boy blinks. Once, twice. He does a double-take on Zayn, and Zayn feels awkward now so he just stares down at the piece of croissant he'd just been handed, cheeks burning a little.

"Um, you're welcome?"

 

Zayn laughs because the boy sounds _so_ confused. He looks up again, and the boy is staring curiously at him, though not unkindly.

Zayn sticks out his hand. "I'm Zayn," he says.

The boy takes it, and, to his everlasting credit, does not wipe his hand right afterward. "Liam," the boy responds, with a little smile.

 

And, just like that, it hits Zayn.

 

Just flashes--

A dog with black spots, a mom stroking his hair, bullies chasing him down the road, getting accepted to university--

And--

_He's on the ground. Blood is pooling around him. He's dead. He's dead. Elbows crushed, spine snapped in half..._

_And then he's alive._

_Not a single bone broken in his body._

_His skin is painted in blood and he's not dead._

_He's not dead._

_How is he not dead--?_

 

"Um, are you okay?"

Liam's voice snaps Zayn out of his thoughts, and he has to blink once, twice, before refocusing on him.

"Yeah--it's just...um, never mind. Uh, shouldn't you be headed off to uni?"

Liam cocks his eyebrow. "How'd you know about that?" he asks, teasingly.

 

And...Zayn knows it's just a little bit of joking humor, but.

But--he's so _sure_  that Liam goes to uni.

It could be a lucky guess--

But Zayn had _known_. Just like Zayn  _knew_ that Liam loved his childhood pet dog, that he and his mother had always been close, that Liam had been bullied a lot as a kid.

Just like Zayn knew that there was something that was _not right_ about Liam.

That Liam had died. And he'd gotten up and walked away, not even a bruise staining his skin.

 

Zayn's head hurt.

 

Liam's still staring at Zayn, his expression melting into one of concern after the long pause. Zayn tries to crack a smile, but he can feel it crumbling at the edges. "Ah, well, why else would you be up this early? No one sane is," he covers.

Liam nods, and all Zayn can see is his spine literally _snapping_ and fixing itself at inhuman speeds. "Um, yeah," he says. "Well, you're right, I should take off. Nice talking to you, Zayn."

Zayn smiles again, and his head _hurts._ "You too, Liam."

Liam smiles back at him, but Zayn doesn't really recognize it. His head's hurting him too much.

***

There's this house that Zayn goes to sometimes.

Usually it's not any help on Bad Days, but still. It's a roof over his head, and no one bothers him because everyone thinks he's as high as the, not having some psychotic break.

 

It's dilapidated, as all these places are.

What little furniture in it is torn, bleeding out stuffing, and the wooden floors are more rot than board at this point. It's obvious that this place used to be gorgeous, with its spacious rooms and cavernous ceilings, but the grandeur has since been replaced with gray light filtering in from sunken, boarded windows and druggies passed out on the floor.

 

Zayn had tried heroin once. It had been a horrible price to pay, and it just burned in his veins and made the thoughts louder.

When he woke up he found his hands and feet tied together with old washcloths. One of the druggies had told him that he'd been thrashing around so much that he'd broken someone's wrist.

 

Still, on his good days, Zayn almost felt like he was on a high.

The people--Zayn knew, _knew_ that he couldn't hear people's thoughts, that he was schizophrenic--but, these people's thoughts just felt warm, an escapade of the mind. Like he was detached from everything, floating high in the sky. It was to a lesser degree, and blunted by others' thoughts, but it still made him feel calm.

He came here whenever he had to sleep, or to think.

 

Which was why he was here now.

 

He was leaning up against one of the walls, mind swirling. He felt like everything was draining out, leaving strange residues at the bottom.

 

Liam wasn't something quite right.

He...could heal fast. Or, at least, thought that he could.

That is, if Zayn could read minds. Which was also another question.

Zayn groaned and threw his head up against the wall.

 

It's not as if Zayn hadn't entertained the idea of being actually able to read minds.

It was just the small things.

Like how he'd think that some guy was thinking of entering a shop, and then that guy would do it a second later. How a father was contemplating yelling at his children a second before it happens. How a little girl would be thinking about Barney before asking her mom why the dinosaur was purple.

But that was crazy, and he knew that.

Which was why he was crazy.

 

Still--if someone didn't feel crazy, did that mean that they were? Or that they weren't?

Maybe _everyone_ is crazy.

 

Maybe this thing would drive Zayn crazy if he didn't do _something_ about it.

 

* * *

 

 

A week after Zayn had talked to Liam, he found himself waiting outside that stupid coffee shop.

 

It wasn't that he hadn't tried to stay away--he'd tried _everything._

He'd even contemplated moving cities. Which was pathetic, but. He'd tried _so hard_ to not investigate it.

Because, well.

He was scared of the answer.

 

Because he'd never tried to actually explain this to anyone other than his family or those goddamned doctors. And both hadn't exactly gone over well.

With his family, this...thing could be written off as him knowing them so well. The doctors wrote it off as lucky guesses mixed with a serious psychological disturbance.

 

But.

If this worked with Liam, it'd mean that Zayn was _different_ too, and not in the crazy sense.

In a strange, sick kind of way, it meant that Zayn would actually have to start to work through this.

(And god, would his life be messed up if 'crazy' was the easy answer.)

It meant that Zayn would have to be ready for some other strange sense. In a weird way, he'd have to start valuing himself again, and he couldn't go on living like this if he _knew_ rather than suspected.

 

So of course Zayn had tried to run away from Liam, and of course it hadn't worked.

 

And he found himself here, waiting in the crisp morning for Liam to come down the street.

 

Liam does, after an _achingly_ long time, at precisely 7:32 a.m.

Which, incidentally, is the same time Zayn stops breathing.

 

Liam notices Zayn right away.

Zayn hadn't really banked on that, mostly figured that he'd have to get Liam's attention _very_ loudly, so he's surprised when Liam walks right up to him with a soft, "Hey."

Zayn swallows. He feels like his tongue is suddenly caught in his throat, and his breath is coming in short gasps. "Hey," he rasps out.

Liam frowns. "Zayn," he says, "are you okay? Or, like, as okay as a homeless person can be?"

 

Zayn would laugh at that if he didn't feel like he'd reached the end of his life.

 

"Zayn?" Liam prompted, eyebrows burrowing down to his nose.

"Yeah," Zayn says. His voice sounds far away. He clears his throat. "Yeah, yeah," he repeats. "I just--really, really have to ask you something."

"Okay," Liam says, "shoot." 

His voice is still laced with concern, and Zayn swallows again. He can't seem to push down the anxiety brimming at the back of his mouth.

 

"Yeah, okay," Zayn whispers. "Okay. Um. This is gonna sound _so crazy--_ "

"It's okay," Liam interrupts, eyebrows knit together. "You can trust me."

Zayn laughs, a little hysterically. "I don't know," he says. "I just--shit, I'm sorry."

"Zayn, talk to me," Liam says.

 

He can feel the words right behind his lips, wanting to come out. His mind feels like a pool of thoughts the size of teardrops, each pushing up to the lip of the pool. Everything's washing up on shore, and Zayn's washing up with it.

All he can see is purple and gray and the white of the room where the doctors had told him he was schizophrenic.

 

 

"Do you have a supernatural ability to heal?" Zayn blurts out.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Harry does not enjoy education all too much.

 

Logically, he does know that it is beneficial, which is why he is attending his fourth year of university currently.

But truly, he would rather dick around and generally do nothing like everyone else his age.

 

That is not to say that he does not do enough of that already.

His parents would always get on him for doing schoolwork--"You're smart, Harry, don't waste it" was the constant mantra that ran over his mother's tongue.

But he did not have _anything_ to waste.

 

It was as easy as breathing, for Harry.

All he needed to read how to do it, and he could. It was not something that required constant studying and tests to impound the information to his brain; it was like it flowed naturally to him, as if he had already known about the topic before he had ever learned it.

That is not genius, in Harry's opinion. Not the genius everyone else referred to it as.

It was a talent.

And not the sort that would be used to define someone's natural predisposition to a certain subject, such as music or mathematics.

 

No, this was the sort that was in an undefined territory.

 

Harry really hates the word 'supernatural'.

 

Its connotation was one of pseudoscience, of monsters and creatures that were lumped under the umbrella of 'supernatural' to excuse people's superstitions, but also degraded their beliefs to something that was not widely accepted to be true.

(Harry could write an entire essay on how 'supernatural' should become an obsolete word, but no one has never asked him to. Maybe he will one day, just because he feels like it's a topic that should possess more relevance.)

 

So he uses the phrase 'undefined territory' instead. It sounds more intelligent than 'supernatural', and makes him feel as though he actually has a coherent, well-thought-out idea.

But the point that Harry has digressed from is that his talent seems to belong to an undefined territory.

It was something that _seemed_ to be incomprehensible, to hold a degree of ego and childish notion within the theory--but Harry had poured over the facts a million times over.

 

He was not normal.

His aptitude for such learning, so quickly and easily, was not possible by ordinary standards.

It was completely separate from intelligence and a fast learning curve--it was a practice defined by seeing, and completely understanding the mechanisms and workings of a topic.

 

It was trickier with people, but his ability worked to a certain degree, as he discovered.

Within his controlled tests within university, he found that he could accurately predict a person's reactions to a situation, and their natural state of being. It was different than a psychic talent (which he's determined is mostly bullshit--but hey, you never know) because he was not seeing a set vision or reading a person's mind. He was simply understanding the possible scenarios that could occur.

Which made manipulation ridiculously easy, not that he wanted to test it out. He has come to learn that enjoyment of manipulation, and manipulation for one's own benefit, leads to the potential for greater evil.

But it also made calculations and gambling an easy practice, and he could implement adequate social skills to turn a situation into a moderately successful one for any ultimatums he happens to have.

 

Which makes Louis, the boy who vanishes, absolutely infuriating.

What an unpredictable moron.

***

The problem lies in how few Harry's meetings with Louis were in number.

 

He was not exactly _impossible_ to find--after the barista, Niall, had referred to him as _Lou,_ Harry figured that it was most likely short for Louis or Lewis, and cross-referenced that with apartments rented for a man of his age (twenty-one, at most, if Harry had estimated right (and he always does)) (it wasn't hard to hack into the landlords' computers, either. They really need to work on that).

After coming up with a list of names, he simply searched them all up on Facebook and found a Louis Tomlinson who was, evidently, the man Harry was looking for.

Easy-peasy.

 

But Harry also knew that showing up at his apartment would get him a restraining order, and Niall would most likely either faint or demand an explanation the next time he came into the coffee shop.

 

No, Harry's best bet was to stop by his workplace.

It was a restaurant near Louis's university, and apparently it had accumulated great reviews. Adding up all the times that Louis complained about work, or just was dicking around on social media, Harry came up with a rough sketch of his shift.

To make himself look like not a _total_ creep, he invites his sister to dine with him, just because otherwise it would most likely look like Harry was stalking him.

(Which he was _not._ It was _research._ For a relevant _cause_.)

 

So, a Saturday two weeks after Harry had seen Louis in the coffee shop, Harry goes out with his sister for lunch.

It was as good as the reviews inferred, and Harry had already spotted Louis running around a few times.

It was also good to talk to his sister.

She was older than him, but Harry had always felt the need to protect her. It was pleasant to hear about how great she was doing, all of her friends.

Harry had never been too talented at the 'friends' category. It was not as if he lacked the social skills. It was just that he lacked the social skills.

 

Soon enough, an hour had passed and Gemma was getting up, apologizing for the fact that she had to get to a lecture. Harry just waved her off, promising to pay the bill.

Which he did. And then he ducked around the restaurant to the nearest alley.

Louis was standing there, smoking a cigarette.

 

Harry swallows, and squares his shoulders. "Hello."

Louis looks up, and to his credit he does not flinch or freak out. He drops his cigarette, and crushes it under his foot. "How do you keep finding me?"

"Why do you keep running away?"

"I could still run away," Louis points out lazily.

Harry rolls his eyes. "Yes, but I assumed that was fairly obvious and felt no need to point that out."

Louis laughs. "Well, Glasses, I run away because you know _something,_ and I don't trust you."

"My name is Harry," Harry says. "And I understand you do not trust me, but you have not given me ample opportunity to prove myself or my intentions."

Louis blinks. "Um. Do you have a setting that's, like, different than Old English? Cuz I'm studying Drama but that was way more confusing than Shakespeare."

 

Harry just rolls his eyes again. "Can I explain myself?"

Louis gestures. "Go ahead, but I only have fifteen minutes, mind you."

 

So Harry explains.

His theories, his possible formulas, how some people were born with different mutations, how he believed Louis was one of those people.

 

At the end of it all, he takes a deep breath, and Louis just stares at him.

"Wait, so, you're telling me that this is some X-men sort of shit and that's why I can pause time?"

"Well, it's a little bit more scientific--wait, you can control time? What--what the _fuck?_ I thought you could teleport!"

 

Louis grins, and it's a little scary. It makes something in the base of Harry's stomach flutter.

A beeper blinks on Louis's watch before anyone can say anything else, and Louis sighs.

"That's me, then," he says, and then reaches into Harry's back pocket. Before Harry can even worry about how dangerous or awkward that situation could be, Louis punches in his number and assigns himself to Harry's contacts.

"Text me," Louis says, brushing himself off and popping in a few breath mints, "and we're gonna meet up somewhere and talk, because this is some weird shit and you need to explain more."

 

He heads around the corner, and slips in through the restaurant's front door.

Harry sags against the alley wall, and breathes a sigh of relief.

He checks his contacts, and has to suppress a laugh.

 

Louis had put his name as _Hotter than the Cyclops (and he had Laser Vision)._

Of fucking course.

 

 

 


End file.
